


The Devil Wears...Well, Corsets Sometimes

by HannibabestheCannibabes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Greece, Charles II - Freeform, Crossdressing, Crowley is a dick, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Historical References, History, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, More angst, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), The Restoration, Trojan War, Tudor Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-07-10 17:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19909375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannibabestheCannibabes/pseuds/HannibabestheCannibabes
Summary: Throughout their 6,000 years together, Crowley and Aziraphale have helped each other out of a number of peculiar scrapes and a variety of perplexing situations. If only they'd realised exactly why they'd been quite so willing to help one another...ORFive times in history that Aziraphale caught Crowley in a dress.





	1. The Trojan War

**The Trojan War**

_They say, just over 3,000 years ago, there lived Helen of Troy, known also as Helen of Sparta, wife of King Menelaus. They say, also, that she was the most beautiful woman in Ancient Greece, beloved by all. Unfortunately, no paintings survive of her famed beauty and so we rely now on the writers of old to have captured the dark and mysterious essence of her being, such essence that led to her abduction by Prince Paris of Troy and led to the launch of a thousand ships to return her home. Helen of Troy’s beauty led to the battles of old that caused the deaths of thousands, and the rise and fall of some of Ancient Greece’s most revered and feared warriors and heroes. For Helen of Troy caused the Trojan War, the greatest war of the Ancient World._

_Only one man however really knew the face that launched a thousand ships. And, well, to be honest, he was less of a man and more a man-shaped ethereal being, very far from home._

* * *

Aziraphale wasn’t completely sure how he ended up here. Clad in gleaming armour and a tunic he would have felt was far too short if not for the very handy undergarments he had chosen to wear beneath, marching through a palace very far from his cosy nook of the World (precisely 1,998 miles to be specific, something he was trying very hard not to think about too greatly), rehearsing in his mind the speech he had prepared specifically for this moment. The speech to end a war. How had he ended up here? Honeyed wine, he realised with a small nod, honeyed wine and those delicious ripe fruits with the seeds that it was impossible to find anywhere aside from Greece, especially in the year 1200BC (well, that and orders from _up there_ but he preferred not to think about those at all).

He was being led by a silent slave girl who had glanced at him once in a way, at least he felt, that was incredibly dismissive of a man in full armour from an enemy army. Maybe it was the tentative hold he had of his sword that failed to inspire respect, or quite possibly it was his rather unimpressive lack of both height and muscle. He could hardly blame her. He felt very much the same.

‘So, have you...served here long?’ Despite best efforts, his voice was really more of a breathless squeak as he spoke, his legs working far too quickly to keep up with his guide through a labyrinth of stone corridors for any energy to be spent on trying to present himself as anything resembling the Spartan heroes awaiting his return (despite common misconceptions about angels, they largely lacked grace and fluidity on Earth, having spent most of their existence as floating beings, legs were often difficult to use).

He was met with a sharp side glare. ‘I have served my mistress since her arrival here.’

‘And what’s she like? Your mistress? Helen of Spa...Troy?’

The girl stopped abruptly outside of a thick door. She stopped so quickly it required a small (but arguably necessary, he would insist to upstairs) miracle to avoid stepping straight into her. ‘These are her quarters. You have only an hour’s quarter with her. You may say all you need, however you may not look upon her face. Understood?’

The angel smiled nervously, taking a rather unnecessary gulp. ‘Perfectly.’

The room was visibly empty as he was shown in. Aziraphale stood awkwardly, fingers fiddling with the small ring on his left hand. He cast a more-than-anxious glance behind him as the door was closed before turning back to address the room, beginning naturally with a politely introductory cough (it was, of course, immaterial whether the room was actually empty, he had prepared a speech and he was going to deliver this speech, even if no-one was listening).

‘Erm...hello, Helen pf Spa...Troy. Or Helen of Sparta, actually, hardly up for me to decide how you may wish to be addressed.’ He paused for a moment to be met with silence, and so continued hesitantly. ‘I am a messenger sent by King Menelaus of Sparta. I am here to talk with you and hopefully, should you be willing, I am here to…’

‘Aziraphale, is that you?’

The angel felt himself jump as, from behind the far curtain, an unexpectedly tall figure emerged (not that Aziraphale was one to judge the height one should expect from the woman considered the most beautiful in Greece, he just hadn’t really anticipated that height to be over 6 foot). The figure seemed to slouch their way across the floor with a swagger that Aziraphale was _sure_ he had seen before, if only he could place it… ‘Crowley?’

‘Thought it was you, angel.’ The demon broke into a wide grin, visible as he removed the veil from his face and tossed it to the floor in a ball. ‘What’re you doing in Troy?’

‘What am I doing…? What are you doing, Crowley? Where is Helen of Spa...Tr...wherever? And why on Earth are you wearing...wearing a dress?’ 

The demon’s smile seemed to only widen further at the confused frown on the face of his angelic counterpart, who he noticed was also giving him a look up and down whilst trying desperately to hide such a gesture. ‘You like?’

‘That answers none of my questions, Crowley. What are you doing here? And in that?’ It was a dress, Aziraphale realised, the longer he stared. Crowley was clad in a long, emerald coloured gown, the kind of green that seemed very much out of character for a demon, especially a demon such as him, who Aziraphale had only ever seen wearing colours that would not look out of place at a funeral (events Crowley admittedly enjoyed attending sometimes, especially the wakes, where wine ran free and fights were boundless). It was also, however, the kind of green that seemed very much to compliment the demon’s deep Autumn curls, currently twisted and pinned to his head in a style very much considered in fashion for the young women (note, young _women_ ) of Greece 1200BC. 

‘So is that a firm no to the dress? Because I personally really quite like it.’ It was impossible for Aziraphale to tell if he was joking, his lips curved into an entertained smirk. He even gave a small twirl, just to watch his companion’s face redden. ‘You ever worn one of these, angel? They are bloody great. So light. Really good as well for airing out your…’

‘I don’t need you to finish that sentence, Crowley.’ 

‘You sure? Wasn’t aware you angels had much grasp of human biology. You made an effort then?’ The demon made a small gesture, tiny really compared to some of the ruder ones in his repertoire (and his repertoire was extensive), and watched as the angel turned a delicious shade of crimson. At his silence, Crowley shrugged. ‘I’m taking that for a yes, then…’

‘Stop changing the subject.’ Aziraphale finally forced himself to stammer, earning a raised eyebrow from the other man. ‘You still haven’t answered any of my questions. Where is Helen?’

‘Helen? You’re looking for Helen?’

‘Yes. Of Troy. Or Sparta. Or whatever it is she’s choosing to call herself. Where is she?’

Crowley took a step backwards, holding his arms wide with a smug grin across his face, the universal look of a man who believes he has just accomplished something very very worthwhile and important and is now just awaiting the credit. However, if this was a universal sign, someone had forgotten to inform the Principality of the Eastern Gate, for Aziraphale remained stood with a confused look across his face. Crowley tried the gesture a couple more times, to be met with the same look of sheer puzzlement from the angel until he eventually just had to give up.

‘Me. It’s me, angel. I’m Helen of Troy. And Helen of Sparta, I suppose, technically. You’ve found her. Him. Me. You found Helen.’ The angel’s face hadn’t changed, apart from sheer puzzlement having turned into complete bewilderment (the difference is subtle but mainly measured by a small shift in the angle of Aziraphale’s head tilt and depth of his frown. Crowley luckily had spent enough time already with him to be able to tell the difference). ‘I am Helen of Troy, angel.’

Simple words but still so lost on him. Aziraphale shook his head. ‘I’m still rather unsure what you mean.’

‘I mean...how do I honestly make this any simpler?’ The demon seemed to hiss in frustration (rather a throwback to his days as a snake, but also for undeniable dramatic effect). He gestured once more to his dress with wide eyes of exasperation. ‘See this? This is a dress. I am wearing said dress because I am Helen of Troy, previously Helen of Sparta, and the most famous woman in Greece…’

‘But...Helen…’

‘Isn’t real. Never was.’ He shrugged, before sitting down on the divan behind him having conjured a large glass of wine from nowhere. He offered one to Aziraphale who refused with a small shake of the head. He was far too distracted with the demon’s current position, one leg thrown carelessly over the other in true contrast to the elegance of his gown, and in complete ignorance to the very revealing nature of dresses, the nature of which was causing the angel to flush once more. At the angel’s stare, he realised, uncrossing his leg with a sheepish grin. ‘Ah yeah, still not used to that. One downside of these things really.’

‘Why though? Not the dress, I mean, but the whole...this? What have you been doing here?’ He sat gingerly beside the demon, bolt upright in true angelic style (not necessarily so, mind you, there are some angels who rather enjoy a good slouch, but Aziraphale would never be one of them).

‘Well, had some orders from Downstairs. Go to Greece, make some trouble, they said. Figured it’s way easier to tempt men whilst dressed as a woman. I was right.’

‘You’ve started the Trojan War, Crowley. Thousands will die.’

‘I know. Brilliant, right?’ 

He ignored the question, and the rather smug smile that had painted itself across the demon’s face. ‘But...Helen...she’s supposed to be the most beautiful woman in Greece. They say poets will speak of her beauty for centuries. People must know that cannot be you, my dear.’

‘I’ll try not to take that one too personally, angel.’ At the angel’s continued frown, he gave another shrug. ‘Turns out it’s pretty easy to be the most beautiful woman in Greece when you don’t show your face to anyone.’ He pointed to the veil he had thrown into the corner. ‘Just wore that. Helped with the eyes as well, figured they might be a bit offsetting.’

‘And your height?’

‘I’m statuesque. Goddess-like.’

‘That’s blasphemy, my dear.’

‘And I’m a demon, it’s rather in the job description to be a little blasphemous once in a while.’ He stretched out on the divan, head tipped back, eyes closed lazily. ‘What’re you doing here, anyway? I heard a bit of your speech. You’re with the Spartans.’

‘Well, actually, I’m also here on orders from my people. Upstairs. I’m here to stop the Trojan War.’

‘No, you aren’t.’ He sat up again with a start. ‘I’ve put a lot of work into this war, angel, you can’t stop it yet. It hasn’t even actually started yet.’

‘Well, my orders are to end it. My orders are to fetch Helen of Troy and...ah.’ The penny, it seemed, had finally dropped, as well as the angel’s face with the realisation of the situation. ‘Helen of Troy isn’t real.’

‘Nope.’

‘And so the Trojan War cannot be stopped.’

‘Not really.’

‘Oh dear.’ He had returned to fiddling with the ring on his finger, twisting it with fresh nerves. ‘This was a direct order from Upstairs. So soon after the flaming sword, as well. Oh dear. Oh dear…’

‘They might not notice.’ The demon held out his glass of wine again, with the offer this time accepted by the angel who drank quickly.

‘I think they might notice the massive, catastrophic war and the thousands dead, Crowley.’

‘Well, then...you could hide.’ The suggestion earned him a fierce glower from Aziraphale, the fiercest he could manage without prior warning for the requirement of such a glare (and thus having had no time to practice). ‘Not forever, of course, just a couple of millennia...alright, centuries...fine, weeks. I know a really smashing tavern in Gaul. Bloody great wine. You’d love it really.’

‘Gaul?’

‘Yeah, camp out for a bit. Avoid the fallout when everyone realises this war has become a bit of a cock up.’

‘With you?’ But what about all this?’

‘Ah, to be honest with you, I don’t really think that many soldiers really care about saving Helen of Troy as much as they care about just brutally murdering each other. That’s the beauty of humanity, really, makes my job easy.’ The demon stood, offering the angel a hand to help him from the plush cushioning. ‘Besides, some of the men are starting to get a bit handsy. I’m all for Lust as much as the next demon, but not when it involves their stray hands and my arse.’ He was almost at the door when he realised that Aziraphale was stood still, watching him. ‘Come on, angel, get a bloody move on.’

‘You’d just leave, right now, with me? Leave all of this? All of your work?’

‘Did you hear a bloody word i just said? About the hands and my arse and all the murder? War’s going ahead now, even if I didn’t like it. Might as well get to sit out somewhere very far away and enjoy it.’ With a flick of his wrist, he was dressed identically to the angel, dress gone to be replaced with Spartan tunic and breastplate. He held out his arm. ‘To Gaul, angel?’

Aziraphale took the demon’s arm with a small smile. ‘To Gaul.’


	2. England, 1536

**London, 1536**

As far as gaols went, it was not the most pleasant. Though Aziraphale had hardly been in many. That was his angelic nature to thank really, it did rather keep one from committing prisonable crimes. Though with another nervous glance around the dank cell, the walls he was certain were actually dripping with... _ something _ ...Aziraphale did have to realise being an angel couldn’t keep one safe forever. At least he had a bed to sit on. It was an alternative style of bed, he had to admit, and rather resembled a pile of straw cast onto the floor. But it had stayed dry, even amongst such filth, and so he refused to allow himself to complain. 

Still, he did rather  _ want _ to complain. There were a number of things he  _ wanted _ to complain about. The conditions. This use of punishment. The rather poor ventilation of the Tower in which he was being kept. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose as another whiff of something very...human seemed to seep under the door (how humans managed to live together when they smelled so terrible sometimes seemed incredible to him). And of course he really wanted to complain about what he knew was coming to him soon. Execution. They were rather fond of execution in this century.  _ Oh dear _ . He could just imagine the look on Gabriel’s face if he was executed, discorporated after only just once 5,000 years in his body.  _ Oh dear. Oh dear. _

A creak from the door startled him from his thoughts (something which, in any other place would have been a welcome distraction given the deep turn of his thoughts, but at the present moment suggested something much worse was about to happen). He stood sharply, brushing down his clothes and standing straight, as a screech of metal key turning inside metal lock interrupted the silence. Aziraphale did his best to appear calmly sombre as the door opened.

‘Aziraphale, is that you?’

He had anticipated many different possibilities for who would appear to him in that cell. What he had not expected, however, was a cloaked figure who walked with a cocky swagger that the angel had not seen in over a hundred years.

‘Crowley?’ His frown was met with the wide grin of the demon who had thrown back his hood to reveal eyes covered by small, dark glasses (so horrifically out of place, Aziraphale cringed, they had yet to even invent wearable clear glasses yet). His hair was long again, the angel noted with a smile, for no discernible reason. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Alright, angel?’ He was relaxed even in the dank cell, leaning where he stood, at an angle that always felt to Aziraphale that he was a mere degree or two from falling. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Why are you here, Crowley?’

‘Thought you might need some help.’ With a flick of the wrist, the demon had illuminated the cell, and instantly frowned in disgust. ‘Satan. It looks like Hell in here. Quite literally like Hell as well. Must have the same architect or something. Interior decorator perhaps. Reeks like Hell as well. Pure shit.’ His eyes fell back upon his companion, he was staring at him with a look of pure confusion. ‘I’m here to rescue you, angel. You do want to be rescued?’

‘Of course I want to be rescued...how did you even know I was here?’

‘Ah, you hear things. Specifically I heard of a strange man obsessed with books talking gibberish, your sort of description, having been taken to the Tower of London and awaiting execution.’ He shrugged, dramatically enough to be visible even beneath the cloak. ‘So, come on, rescue is here. Let’s get off before they realise, eh?’

‘And go where?’

‘Well, I have this excellent bottle of red…’

* * *

He also had apartments in London too horribly close to the Palace for Aziraphale’s liking. He was a fugitive now, technically, something he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t terribly uncomfortable with (although admittedly more comfort than execution would have given him). The demon looked far more relaxed as he led the angel into a small chamber where wine was already waiting on a table, complete with two glasses already filled. He gestured to a seat lazily.

‘This is a very nice place.’ Aziraphale took one of the glasses and had a light sip, just enough to cause his lips to lift and his eyes to close briefly in contentment (a small gratified moan may also have escaped him, but he hadn’t had wine in over two weeks admittedly, it was hardly handed out freely in gaol). ‘You must be doing well.’

‘Yeah, a’right. It’s a pretty sinful time really, job’s easy.’ Crowley flung his cloak off and was about to take the seat opposite his angelic counterpart when he noticed the open-mouthed, wide eyed stare in his direction. ‘Angel?’

‘You’re back in dresses, I see.’ Aziraphale attempted to keep his voice as disinterested as he could ( _ after all, why shouldn’t he? What did it matter to him if Crowley was wearing a rich gown with an obscenely plunging neckline and a corset bodice tight enough to give him a waist that he imagined would inspire less than virtuous thoughts in any being’s mind? What did it matter if it was deep black and offset with pearled beading in all of the places he wished to draw his eye from? _ ) but he felt his face flush deeply the longer he stared. ‘Any reason?’

‘You seen me in a dress before?’ The demon frowned, taking a long swig of wine in a most unfeminine manner. ‘When was that?’

‘Greece.’

‘Ah yeah, Greece. That was good fun.’ He held his arms wide, as if to allow the angel to get a closer look. ‘Well, what’d you think? Prefer it to Greece? I’m a fan, to be honest. Far less comfortable but far more my style. Thoughts, angel?’

He couldn’t quite say exactly what he was thinking. He didn’t really understand exactly what he was thinking. Aziraphale settled for a mumbled, ‘Looks lovely, my dear.’

‘You think? I was a bit worried about the top really, not a lot to fill it…’ Crowley cast a glance down at his own chest, adjusting the dress. ‘Reckon you’d look alright actually, angel, if you ever fancy it.’

‘I think I’m comfortable as I am, thank you.’ He’d blushed again, something luckily missed by the demon who was pouring his second drink. ‘Might I ask why the dress?’

‘Why not?’ Another shrug. ‘Seems as good as any time to throw one on. Why the gaol cell?’

‘Sorry?’

'What landed you in the clink?’

‘I happened to make a comment that did not go down very well.’ He sat up rigidly as he spoke, this time gis embarrassment certainly noticed by the demon, who smiled broadly.

‘What’d you say?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘We’re friends, aren’t we? You can tell me.’

‘No, I won’t,’ he said, before shooting Crowley the fiercest glare he could muster after a glass of wine. ‘And no, we are certainly not friends. I am an angelic being of the highest order, you are a wily demon. We are not friends.’

‘I did save your neck though, angel. You owe me.’

He resented the look on the demon’s face, the look of one who had very clearly won the argument (it was actually just Crowley’s face, he just  _ did  _ very often win his arguments, mainly as he picked only those with the easiest opponents). ‘Fine. I happened to make a very simple comment in the presence of the King that maybe he shouldn’t execute the Queen for failing to produce a son given that the sex of a human baby is dictated by the genetics from the human male involved in the...er...process.’

‘You told King Henry VIII it’s his fault he has no son?’

‘What I said is biological fact, Crowley. I did not deserve to face execution.’

‘What you said, angel, certainly deserves execution because King Henry VIII is a bloody wanker.’ Although he was still wearing the glasses, Aziraohale had no doubt that Crowley’s eyes were laughing at him, even as the rest of his face remained deceptively still. ‘Now, don;t get me wrong, Hell is a big fan of the guy. Huge sinner. Not a sin he hasn’t committed actually. Lazy, jealous, angry, greedy. Chases anything in a skirt, can tell you that one for a fact.’

‘Is now happily married though, my dear,’

‘Eh…’ He pulled an awkward frown. ‘He had her executed, angel, sorry.’

‘Anne Boleyn? Oh.’ If he’d had less than angelic composure (or, quite simply, was a very different angel), he’d have slumped at the news. Instead, Aziraphale allowed himself a sigh. ‘I rather liked her. She was so charming.’

‘Yeah, she had some of our help there, actually.’ The demon admitted, earning a soft whimper from his companion. ‘Come on, you didn’t actually believe a human was that naturally witty and cunning? Not saying she was demonic, just had a bit of training.’

‘And I really did like her. What was she executed for?’

The demon seemed to wince at the memory of her trial, and he shook his head. ‘You don’t need to know, angel. You wouldn’t like knowing.’

‘Oh. Sinful then?’

‘Very.’

‘Is that all you’ve been doing then, my dear?’ Aziraphale finished his second glass far quicker than his first, he realised. Anything he supposed to stop him from looking too frequently at his demonic counterpart, who still had not yet learnt how to sit elegantly in a dress and whose current position was  _ far  _ too revealing for the angel to feel comfortable with. His question earned raised eyebrows above the small dark glasses.

‘All I’ve been doing besides helping tempt the King of England, angel? I’ve been given a commendation for my work up here recently. I caused the Reformation.’ He was met only with a blank stare. ‘You know, the Catholics and the Protestants and the break from Rome and all the fighting and that. Changing the Bible to English and stuff. I did that.’

‘But don’t humans know it doesn’t matter? As long as they’re worshipping God, She doesn’t mind how…’

‘Ah, humans don’t care about that. Any opportunity to yell at each other and they’ll take it. I’m expecting this one to be a slow-burner anyway. Reckon it’ll cause problems for centuries. Downstairs were pretty impressed.’ Well, pretty impressed once Crowley had actually explained to them where Rome was and how ‘break with Rome’ doesn’t actually mean that England was going to physically breakaway from the continent. Never mind explaining what a book was. ‘Not the only thing I’ve got in my pocket either.’

‘So you’re very busy then? I’m delighted for you.’ He was trying his best to lie (he was an angel, after all, he couldn’t be impressed with all of these demonic deeds) yet found his words seemed to contain only the deepest sincerity. ‘What else are you doing?’

‘I’m going to get myself a bloody husband. I’m going to marry the King, angel. King Henry VIII.’ He seemed to misunderstand the shock across Aziraphale’s face as he spoke, because he shrugged with a casual wave of the hand. ‘Oh, not quite yet, don’t worry. Not going to do anything to the new wife. You’d love her, by the way, really up your guys’ street. So dull. Thinking after her, maybe. Just think though, demon Queen on the throne of England. Make my job so much simpler when people have to actually just do what I say no question. Still putting the plan into motion at the moment. The dress is a good start and…’

‘Don’t you think this is perhaps not a good idea, Crowley?’ Naturally, Aziraphale had been sat in silence whilst his companion had spoken (and spoken utter nonsense as well, may he had, but it was rather his specialty at times). But he’d also felt a small shift inside his body, perhaps his stomach, a little drop, as though he stomach had sunk a little and his heart seemed to have slowed.

‘Of course it’s not a good idea. Good ideas are sort of more...your thing. I do the bad ones. Rather in the job description.'

‘No. I mean, do you really think this is going to work?’

‘What’d you mean?’

‘Well, I’m assuming still here partially, but also I feel accurately due to the quite terrible way you have been sat for the last half an hour, that you were assigned a male human body. Do you not think that may cause some problems for you given this is a man known to execute people based on their inability to provide a son and heir?’

‘Ah, tiny details.’

‘You called him a…’ He tried to make his mouth form the word, sadly all in vain. ‘A rude word, Crowley. You can’t marry someone you call rude words.’

‘Eh, everyone’s a bit of a wanker really. Not too much of an issue.’

‘Plus you are a demon. That will be worked out eventually.’

‘They’ll have no evidence.’

‘You have yellow eyes, Crowley. You can’t touch holy water, or enter churches, and this is all just a horrible idea.’

‘Are you jealous, angel?’ He smirked as he spoke, watching as Aziraphale’s face turned a most appealing shade of crimson. ‘You are, you’re bloody jealous. Not very angelic of you there.’

‘I’m not jealous.’

‘I mean, I suppose he’s not much of a looker anymore but he was alright when he was a bit younger. Plus access to all the best food, meet all the best people. And you angels are all a bit more...flexible in your physiques than us demons, could work out for you…’

He’d assumed he was upset about the King, Aziraphale realised, with another small drop in his stomach ( _ really, he must work out what that was, it was so terribly inconvenient a feeling _ ). But no, he couldn’t really care much less for the King. As relationships with humans went, he preferred his rather more... _ simplistic _ than any such arrangement as Crowley seemed to be comfortable with. Humanity was rather wonderful at times, Aziraphale was a great fan of the new printing press, but not quite enough to do more with than maintain gentle conversation. Perhaps that was being an angel instead of a demon. Demons did rather have to get quite close to humans more, if only just to tempt them more successfully. Perhaps temptation has to occur when very close. Perhaps whispering in the ear. Or skin to skin. Or closer. 

‘Are you listening, angel?’ Crowley frowned, waving a hand in front of Aziraphale’s face. ‘You don’t look great.’

‘Oh, no, I’m listening perfectly well.’

‘So, you fancy it? Banquet at the palace? There’ll be swan for you to try. And dancing. I can get you a hat so no-one recognises you.’

‘Oh. No, thank you.’ 

‘Ah, come on, there’s this brand new dance you’d love, I’m sure. You don’t have to wear the hat if you don’t want to.’ The demon looked so eager (eager for him, anyhow, which was most people’s usual facial expression), Aziraphale felt himself flooded with guilt. But he seemed unable also to shake the pit in his stomach, the one that caused him yet again to shake his head slowly.

‘I’m sorry, my dear, but angels don’t really dance.’

‘Demons don’t either and I…’

‘Good luck with your plan, Crowley. I hope you get what you wish for from it. Thank you for earlier.’ He seemed to brush his hand across the demon’s, and disappeared, leaving Crowley suddenly deeply sullen.


	3. London, 1669

**London, 1669**

Crowley was pretty miserable for a party. Pretty fucking miserable, he reflected, especially for a party held by King Charles II of England, a man famed for holding parties complete with all manner of sins. _Suppose though_ , he thought with a large gulp of wine, _that was the main problem_ . _Rather difficult to tempt anyone when their ideas are far more sinful than any you have in mind for them._ Sadly (or not so sadly, depending on your personal view) for Crowley, this was becoming a rather common problem for all demons. The problem was exacerbated by the fact they had all failed to discuss this growing issue with one another, and thus all demons were currently going through a mid-17th Century slump. Only in another two hundred years, when one of them (Crowley, actually, although he proved surprisingly modest about it later) would invent ‘talking about your feelings awkwardly at therapy groups’ as a new method of torture, would any demon recognise that the 17th Century was just a very difficult time in their long careers.

This information however does not currently help Crowley, still slouched in a corner, drinking wine like it may go out of fashion within the next ten to fifteen minutes.

‘Crowley. Crowley, my dear.’ The sudden intrusion of his innermost thoughts (internal ranting, really, complete with some strange desire for that delicious whiskey he had in Scotland that once) caused Crowley to drop his glass. It was stopped midair however, as subtly as stopping a falling glass cascading maroon wine could be, and it was sent flying back into his hand. The man beside him leaned in. ‘It’s me, Crowley. Aziraphale. Goodness, didn’t you recognise me?’

‘Course I recognised you. Half a mask across your face isn’t that great a disguise. And you had to go so bloody literal, as well.’ He bloody had, too. For the great masquerade ball of King Charles II, Aziraphale had dressed as a bloody angel. Complete with wings. White, feathery wings. Feathery as anything really. It would have made the demon squirm a little to be stood there, had they not been such a reminder of something... ‘Did you have to come as an angel? Where’s the imagination?’

‘I thought it would be fun, actually.’ He bristled a little. ‘Don’t you like it?’

Crowley would love to have been able to say ‘no’. He’d have revelled in it actually, if just to feel a little more demonic at the sight of his angelic counterpart’s slightly crestfallen face. But he couldn’t. Aziraphale looked...well, looked good. The white was perfectly dazzling, a perfect compliment to his cloud-like curls ( _thank bloody Satan he’d not chosen to wear one of those horrific poodle wigs_ ). Even the absurd mask, decorated with gold swirls on bright white, served only to highlight the blue of his eyes ( _had they been that blue before?_ ). The wings, so incredibly obscene really ( _were that many feathers really needed?_ ) had become less so as Crowley realised what they served to remind him of. Of the first fall of rain, overlooking the Garden. Of the feel of an angel at his side, who had stretched out his own wing above his head…

He ducked his head as he answered, aware of the most un-demonic flush across his cheeks. ‘Yeah, you look alright.’

Aziraphale beamed, removing the mask and pushing it onto his head. ‘I notice you’re back in dresses, Crowley.’

‘Yeah, thought why not really?’ The demon shrugged. ‘Beard was driving me mad so figured, wear a dress. Nice change. Easy to wear. Plus, of course…’

‘Better for tempting in?’ The angel interrupted, glancing over. ‘That’s the usual story, right?’

‘Well, actually, I was going to say I’m a big fan of the style. Why?’ Crowley smirked suddenly, leaning in slightly. ‘Think I’m pretty tempting right now, angel?’

‘No. No. Absolutely not. I’m an angel. I wouldn’t know a temptation even if I saw one.’ Aziraphale wished he felt as much conviction as his words suggested, a fact not missed by the demon whose smirk had only grown wider as he took another long sip of wine. Truth was, and Aziraphale did truly hate his natural inclination for truth at moments like this, Crowley did look rather good. The dress hung slightly lower on the shoulders, revealing sharp collar bones and pale skin. He’d brought it in at the waist, possibly smaller than the last dress he had seen him wear (a great benefit, of course, to being a demon and wearing a corset is not needing to breathe, it allowed for a far tighter fit than anything any natural human might be able to achieve). He still wore those absurd sunglasses however, though they seemed to add rather than detract from the look, something which made the angel uncomfortably aware he had acknowledged.

‘Be honest though, it looks alright? Style requires a bit more er...up top than possible, so to speak. Bit worried I overcompensated.’ Crowley gestured awkwardly to the top of his dress, only to be met with the blankest of stares (truly, his absolute blankest, Crowley had a rating system for them) from his companion. With a quick glance around, Crowley bent forward to reveal the wads of loose material he had shoved inelegantly down the front of his dress. ‘Is it too obvious?’

‘No. No.’ Aziraphale felt his cheeks were ablaze as the demon straightened up and readjusted himself. ‘No. You look...good. You look good, my dear.’

‘Cheers.’

* * *

They found an unoccupied corner to sit in, two bottles of red wine miraculously untouched on the table beside them, and the perfect view of the rest of the hall, where people already far too drunk to stand were stumbling across the floor, gripping onto one another where necessary to avoid being the first to actually fall (that honour would, eventually, go to the Duke of York who, in an attempt to grab his mistress’ waist, accidentally held his wife’s and fell to the floor in a mixture of panic and horror). The angel and the demon were more than content to watch.

‘What’re you doing here anyway? Doesn’t seem like the place for head office to be sending you.’ Crowley gestured to the array of couples stood on the sides of the hall, their hands preoccupied beneath the other’s clothes, clear enough even in the dark. ‘Far too much sin for your lot, I’d have thought.’

Aziraphale refused to follow the demon’s gaze, much to his disappointment. ‘I’m not here on orders. Heaven has been rather impressed with my work recently. They’ve given me some time off. I suppose you could say I’m here on holiday.’

‘And you chose here?’

‘Well, I’d heard so much about the royal parties. I just thought it would be a shame to go the entirety of the 1660s without experiencing one.’

‘Huh.’ The demon shrugged, swilling his wine absent-mindedly. ‘And head office is alright with that? What’re they so impressed with anyway?’

‘I restored the monarchy, my dear.’ He was practically beaming as he announced it, the widest smile he had worn on his face since possibly the oysters of Ancient Rome, at least in Crowley’s presence. It faltered however, as the demon’s own face didn’t move. ‘What is it?’

‘You restored the monarchy?’

‘Yes. You know, got rid of that nasty Cromwell, ensured the safe and welcome return of Charles II, England’s true King. Enabled months of merriment and joy. Heaven is awfully pleased.’ His companion’s face had still not lifted, in fact it had positively sunken as Aziraphale spoke, something that caused his own forehead to crease. ‘My dear, you don’t seem too happy.’

‘I restored the monarchy, angel. That was all me.’

‘Nonsense. That was me.’

‘Getting rid of old Wartface Cromwell, Puritan extremist and all-round wanker? Restoring good old Charlie over there, the lover of all things sinful? That was me.’ He’d have hissed if he was slightly less drunk. Or slightly more drunk. He wasn’t entirely sure. ‘Why would that have been you?’

‘Cromwell was a fanatical tyrant. Why would we angels support that?’

‘Have you ever actually met an angel? They’re all bloody fanatical tyrants.’ He rolled his eyes at the slight huff from Aziraphale. ‘Alright, except you. But come on, all this, this is definitely more like something us demons would enjoy.’

‘I’d have thought you demons would have enjoyed Cromwell, actually. What with all of the murder.’

‘Eh.’ Crowley shrugged, his glasses slipping down his nose until Aziraphale could see the yellow slitted eyes beneath. ‘Murder’s no fun really if you don’t have the other stuff to go with it. Murder’s definitely no fun when it’s all committed for reasons that are absolue bollocks. Ah, and that’s another one. No fucking swearing under Cromwell. Bet you guys loved that.’

‘I’ll admit I appreciated it.’ Aziraphale nodded, before frowning once more. ‘The murder not at all. Was I really not responsible for restoring the monarchy?’

‘Not sure really. I was pretty certain it was me. Hell loves me for it.’

‘You did also tell them you both sent and destroyed the Spanish Armada though, Crowley. You aren’t the most honest.’

‘Ah, I’m a demon, they know to expect it.’ Crowley took a long sip of his wine in silence. ‘So chances are neither of us restored the monarchy, right? If we don’t know who did it.’

‘Probably not.’

‘Keep it a secret?’

‘Probably for the best.’

* * *

Three hours, and four and a half bottles of red wine, later and Crowley was disappointed to note that the party had not really improved. At least, he didn’t think it had improved. His eyesight was a little unclear by this point (whilst he often pretended as a demon to have an exceptional tolerance for alcohol, the reality was it was only slightly better than humanity’s average tolerance, he just refused to admit it) and he would definitely struggle to even slouch as usual without risking falling with every step. Still, the angel was no better, he’d taken to swigging from the bottle, and had moved his chair closer, close enough for Crowley to have his arm resting on its back, though neither was quite sure why or when it happened.

‘I was glad your terrible plan to marry the King didn’t work, Crowley.’

‘I’m not marrying the King. I think he wants to marry an apple-picker.’

‘She’s an orange-seller.’ He took another long swig. ‘No, the other one. The fat one. The one who…’ He drew a line across his neck with an unsteady finger. ‘You know. That one.’

‘Ah yeah, that wasn’t going to work. It was fine until they introduced all the ‘you must go to Church’ and ‘you must be touched with Holy water’ bollocks. As if I was going to go near Holy water. And all of the hunting. I like a hunt, I do, but those horses are really uncomfortable when you’re shoved in a corset and got nothing protecting your…’ He gestured inelegantly to his hips, causing the angel’s cheeks to flush crimson red, unnoticed by the demon who was frowning deeply. ‘What was I saying anyway? What were you saying, angel?’

‘The King.’

‘Ah yeah, the King...wha’bout him?’

‘Your plan to marry him.’

‘You were jealous, angel. Don’t give me that look, you can admit it. S’all the same to a demon anyway. So what about him did you like anyway?’

‘I didn’t like the King.’

‘Then why all the jealousy? And don’t pretend you weren’t jealous. I’ve seen it more than enough times to recognise it…’ He stopped suddenly, his face breaking out into an expression of awestruck shock, coupled with a laugh. ‘It was me, wasn’t it? You were jealous because of me, weren’t you? You like me, angel.’

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. He felt himself stammer, ‘Don’t be absurd. I’m an angel. You’re a demon. You are my lifelong enemy.’

‘Don’t pull that demon, angel, enemy crap with me. I’ve known you for like five...six...something thousand years. I know you, angel. You like me.’ He was still wearing a smile caught somewhere between surprise, mockery and perhaps genuine joy (although admittedly that may have been Aziraphale’s wistful thinking, he was incredibly prone to such notions, he’d managed to convince himself of the possibility one day of opening a bookshop before he remembered how few members of humanity could actually read). Right now, however, he could feel himself cringe with every word. 

‘You’re wrong.’

‘And you’re a terrible liar, angel. Come on.’ He seemed to have moved closer, the arm that had been resting on the back of Aziraphale’s chair had now snaked its way to his shoulders, Crowley’s hand now against his neck, fingers gently twisting themselves in his curls. ‘Heaven isn’t watching. Hell’s never watching. And I’ve caught you looking, just a couple of times before you panic about it. Might as well, right?’ _Was he moving closer?_ He was. Aziraphale felt himself swallow nervously as he became aware of the demon’s lips closer to his, feeling his soft breath on his skin. ‘Besides, never tried an angel before…’

Aziraphale pulled away quickly, his face as close to angry as his features would allow. He felt surprisingly very sober for the wine he had consumed. ‘You’ve never done what before?’

‘Tried an angel, y’know. Given it a go. Tried sleeping with the enemy. All that.’

‘Sleeping with the enemy?’

‘S’just words, angel.’ Crowley sat up a bit (obviously not excessively so, just enough to restore him to his natural slouch). ‘Are you angry? You are angry. What’re you bloody angry for?’

‘It has taken me, Crowley, nearly one thousand years to have any sort of understanding of how I currently feel. And yet it has taken you one night to both guess, and to completely destroy it.’ He stood up, now entirely sober, the alcohol having been replaced with what he could only describe as an incredibly strong pain in his chest, and a burning of his throat as he prevented any sort of human tears reach his eyes. ‘I am not here to be an experience for you. I am not humanity. You don’t get to use me for your purposes and then cast me aside when you are done.’

‘I didn’t mean that, angel…’

‘Enjoy the rest of the party, Crowley. Good night.’

Crowley managed to stagger to his feet as Aziraphale left, slipping back through the throngs of guests, dense enough to hide even his bright white curls from view. ‘Angel, come back. I didn’t bloody mean...Aziraphale. AZIRAPHALE.’


End file.
